“Well, Mr. Henderson, even a killer like yourself—who acted in self-defense of course—can’t be held solely for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But I promise you that if you did kill your employer, I will get the proof and nail your ass to it. For the time being, however, you’re free to go.”
Kramer smiled. It wasn’t a reassuring sight.
34 Next Up
Kramer told me to go to home to my own apartment for the night because of all the interrogations that were going on in the halfway house, and the crime scene lab also needed to see Spitz’s possessions and search for evidence. They had a cruiser take me home, and they even made sure all the paparazzi had left. I sat on my couch wondering if being on Proven Killers—and the money I was getting for it—was actually worth all the trouble that had landed on my doorstep. My stress levels were skyrocketing, and the good old days of being a boring grip started sounding better and better. But who was I kidding? My life had changed so drastically, I could barely remember who I’d been before all this crap started. I had gotten way off track and had thrown aside any moral code or values I had. I was turning out to be the very person I railed against. Was it just a few months ago that Mrs. Fox and I would hang out on her back deck, sipping beers while I complained about all the “haves,” while the “have nots” (people like me) were left doing their bidding? I remembered Mrs. Fox smiling and saying something along the lines of “grass looks greener on the other side of the fence.” At the time, I thought maybe she’d just done too many drugs in the sixties, but now I saw the wisdom of her words. I hated reality stars, and now I was one of them. And was I happy? Not really. Sure, the clothes, nice apartment, and hot car were all good, but I was starting to feel that maybe I wasn’t cut out for this life. I really missed my old friends, especially Mrs. Fox and all our heart-to-heart talks. And as much as I tried not to think about it, I missed my mom’s calls, when she’d crack me up with the latest gossip from my old neighborhood. I missed the sound of her voice, so much so that I had a sharp pain in my chest.
I had to shut down that line of thought before I completely lost my mind, so I concentrated instead on the murder investigation and the file that Spitz had before he was killed. Was that memo not recent, or did Spitz plan this after we last talked? And what was up with the “S.T.S.” calling card in Spitz’s mouth? The only possibility that came to mind was whether it could be one of the Proven Killers cast members. But if so, why would they want to kill Spitz? I mean—any more than anyone else on that set? Who had it in for him so badly that they’d stuff a signed piece of paper in his mouth and give the cops something to work with?
I knew I’d have trouble sleeping through the night, so I went against my new commitment to stay sober for a while and had a vodka and tonic with a nice soak in the jacuzzi. I’d think about it all tomorrow.
The next morning, the mood on the set was like a morgue. The cast and crew kept their voices low, sometimes even whispering. They stood around waiting, nervous and afraid. Who wouldn’t be? The executive producer of the show they worked on had been killed. And what was going to happen to them? They all knew this wouldn’t go over well with their parole, not to mention the show and their jobs.
Just then, Victor Klause came through the front door. He was a tall, well-dressed man with blond hair and black horn-rimmed glasses. He carried himself as if he were the star of the show. Klaus had been on Spitz’s executive team since the beginning, so you didn’t have to be a genius to lay odds that he was our new executive producer. No longer would he be in Spitz’s shadow—he was the head man now, taking over front and center. Victor had always talked about having big plans, but everyone was curious to learn if those plans included the Proven Killers show.
Victor’s baby had always been the first show he took some credit for: Being Stronge. Since Petra had been killed, Victor desperately wanted to keep Being Stronge on the air. Victor had his own reasons; the rumor was that he was manipulating the Stronge kids for money. He was the get-out-of-jail-free card that those sick bastards needed to ensure the show kept running when the boys found themselves in trouble with the law. Victor would be the one they called for help so no one would find out. He would bribe people to keep things quiet and then would pad the bills to get his cut. His racket was working nicely, but only if Being Stronge was still going strong on the air.
With Spitz out of the way, maybe Victor was thinking he’d be able to give the Stronge show another go. Of course, it would have to be revamped, but since viewing audiences tended to skew towards dysfunctional families, it should be easy to gain traction with Sandy and the kids again. Many of us had heard through the grapevine that Victor had always had it in for Proven Killers, feeling his show never got the second chance it deserved.
Things, I feared, were going to change. It was our first day back without Spitz and we all could’ve used some reassurance from our new leader. But as Victor motioned for the cast and crew to gather round, he disabused any notions of providing reassurance or comfort with his little speech.
“As you know, James Spitz, executive producer, tragically lost his life,” he began. “While we mourn his passing, we can’t forget we have a business to run and work to do. That is what he would’ve wanted. Naturally, some things will be changing around here, so you can expect a memo in your email by tomorrow with the details. That’s all. Thank you.”
He turned and left, trying to maintain a solemn, thoughtful expression—but couldn’t quite manage it. As the door closed behind him, you could’ve heard a pin drop. Then there was chaos, everyone talking to each other, or on their phones, preparing for the worst. I kept calling Victor’s office to arrange a one-on-one meeting with him, but all I kept getting was a major run-around.
When the email finally came the next day, my fears were proven true. It said the Proven Killers show would be put on hiatus “until further notice.” With six episodes already in the can, there was very little time to determine the fate of the show. There was a little good news: most of the on-air “talent” would continue to get paid through the next six weeks, which was the original minimum number of episodes our contracts stipulated. And anyone who didn’t have alternate living arrangements could stay on at the house for a few weeks until other arrangements could be made, but only if it met with their parole officer’s approval. Some of the cast and crew looked worried, but most of the gang members were smiling. Hell, I’d be too, if I were them. How dope was it to get paid to hang out and do nothing? Sweet setup compared to their alternative.
35 Play It as It Lays
With Spitz gone and Proven Killers looking like it wouldn’t get another season, I started to worry about my job security—again. No matter how many times I tried to contact Victor, I was sent straight to his voicemail, and his mailbox was always full. I was left stranded with my own thoughts.
I decided to go over to Victor’s home and talk with him in person. Even though he had been the head honcho for only a few days, he was already making changes that could mean the end of my freedom. If I could convince him that canceling the show would be bad for the company’s bottom dollar—not to mention how it wouldn’t sit well with some of the gang members—Victor might see things differently. If he feared that pissing on the gangs could result in them taking their anger out on him, he may change his mind. There was only one way to find out.
I asked some of the cast members to join me, but they refused. They just wanted to do their time and get out. Couldn’t say I blamed them. Plus, Armando had told them that as tragic as Spitz’s death was, everything happened for a reason, and they all might be better off without Proven Killers. And Benny reasoned, “Why rock the boat when we all getting paid to do nuthin’?” The man had a point.
So there I was, driving solo one more time up Mulholland Drive. It was starting to get dark and I put my headlights on. I finally found Victor’s home, a stately and elegant mansion—very unlike The Nest. The driveway had several very expensive cars parked in it, which made me
nervous. There didn’t appear to be many interior lights on yet. I took a deep breath, parked my car, and got out. As I walked up to the massive front door, I rehearsed what I would say to Victor. I just hoped he didn’t have any bodyguards that could throw me out on my ass, or I’d have to talk really, really fast.
I reached for the intercom button but noticed the door to the house was slightly ajar. I looked back at the cars in the driveway and realized that every license plate had “Vic” displayed in some form or another. All the cars belonged to Victor. Great. I knocked, which made the door push open even further.
“Hello?” I yelled into the emptiness. I waited. Nothing.
I went further inside, calling out Victor's name. Suddenly, there was a noise coming from down the hall. I tiptoed hesitantly towards the sound and looked around, my eyes peeled for the slightest movement. The last thing I needed was a B&E.
As I rounded the corner into what appeared to be the kitchen, there was Victor—sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood. My knees buckled. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time—again! Why did this keep happening to me? This had to stop. Was my karma that bad that I was forced to keep finding dead bodies? Was this God’s way of telling me I needed to come clean and if not, that I was destined to be haunted with this bad karma until I did? Crap!
I had to get the hell out of there before anyone saw me. This time I would call no one. I knew enough not to go near the body and get my DNA all over the crime scene. I retraced my steps, making sure I hadn’t touched anything but the door handle. I wiped it clean and bolted for my car.
I jumped in, did a hasty U-turn, and started to bolt out of there, when I noticed a Humvee coming down the street towards me. Not one of those fake Humvees either—the real deal, the kind the Hollywood biggies used to drive around town, getting four miles to the gallon. I veered onto the shoulder, put it in a lower gear, and shot past the Humvee without getting a good look at the driver, and hoping he hadn’t gotten a good look at me. I did notice one thing, though; it had looked as if there’d been more than one person in the car. Before the Humvee could turn around and give chase, I was barreling down Mulholland and out of sight.
That night, I stayed up all night again, knowing someone had probably seen me or my car in the vicinity of Victor’s house. And Victor was dead. You didn’t have to be a genius to see where this was heading. I had nowhere to hide, nowhere to go, and the question of “Who the hell was in that Humvee?” pressed in on me from all sides. Then, my only thought was, That big house had to have one of those security cameras somewhere, right?
I decided not to wait for the inevitable knock on the door. I called Artie the police detective and told him I needed to see him right away. Seventy-five minutes later, I was back at the now familiar police station. I took a seat in the waiting area—demoralized, depressed, and despondent.
36 Thrown to the Wolves
“That is just about the biggest bunch of crap I’ve ever heard—and I’ve heard it all.” Okay, maybe calling Artie had been a mistake. He obviously didn’t believe a word I said. He assumed I was just another egotistical reality star selling some bullshit, eager to generate more press for myself. Artie acted as if I’d let him down in some way. There was a note of disappointment in his voice. Maybe—like everyone else—he believed all the hype and was angry because he thought I had more money and acclaim than he ever would, and it still wasn’t enough for me. Ha! If he only knew. This time, he sent me to a holding cell and there were no autographs, no joking around with the officers—nothing. This time, I was not to be released on bail, but left to sit and wait for more questioning.
I felt as if I were on a very surreal, very bad episode of Punk’d. Let’s face it—if it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all. Spitz and Victor would have loved knowing their untimely deaths had put them in the spotlight, their photos splashed all over TV, the newspapers, and social media. Hollywood was in a frenzy with all the news of a serial killer targeting reality TV personas. Headlines everywhere strongly suggested that the murders had to be an inside job by a disgruntled employee. Everyone in Hollywood knew someone who was a disgruntled employee. News outlets were having a field day: “What were the executives of these so-called reality shows thinking? And the latest—Proven Killers? You throw a bunch of convicted felons in a house and think it was going to go well?” I couldn’t help but think that Spitz was smiling somewhere over all the publicity for his latest creation.
My daydreaming in the cell came to an abrupt halt when two officers arrived to escort me to one of the interrogation rooms. As I entered, Artie was gathering up the note found in James’s mouth, along with what looked like a similar note in another evidence bag. Whoa—had there been a S.T.S. note in Victor’s mouth too? I looked up at Artie, and he could tell what I was thinking.
“Everyone likes to copy what they see in the movies, Mr. Henderson.” He then explained that he’s seen this M.O. of leaving notes in victims’ throats before. But that’s not all he offered up—the second note mentioned S.T.S. like the first one, but in a smaller, sloppy print was written: Seal Team Six. Whether the same killer had struck twice, or there was a copycat killer out there, either way they were giving clues. Artie stared at me for a long time. If he was hoping to get some new information out of me, he was barking up the wrong tree. I knew I wasn’t involved in James’s or Victor’s deaths. He gave an almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders, as if he was giving up on me. He asked a few more questions, but we could both tell he was just going through the motions. Artie ended up where everyone else seemed to end up with me—without enough hard evidence to keep me in jail, and so he had to let me go. It really galled him to do it, and I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
Proven Killers was now larger than life. In a morbid twist of fate, the show was destined to continue. Audiences were clamoring for more episodes to see if the show actually had a serial killer on it. This was great news for the cast and crew, at least for the ones who weren’t too afraid to stay with the show. Proven Killers was back to being front and center, except for one major hurdle: we needed yet another new leader. This was going to be a huge problem, considering the track record of what happened to the last two commanders-in-chief on the show.
The studio figured money had to be no object, given they could find the right person. The top brass had no idea if these homicides had come from within or not, so they decided to go outside the company to choose its new producer. They interviewed everyone who they thought had the guts to step into such a landmine, and who was capable of landing the studio a coveted Emmy Award, which now seemed within their reach. Fortunately, they found a new successor, Jonathan Pence. He was an “up-and-comer” with a golden track record. He was highly sought after from all the other studios. His current contract with a competitor was short-term, and it was widely reported he was eager to jump ship. He was especially adept at taking so-so projects and turning them into must-see TV, while securing their syndication and merchandising rights, which was the real gold. He was a hot commodity after a wildly popular run with Ice Road Truckers, even when filming had been temporarily suspended after two crew members got frostbite on their hands while filming in Alaska. No doubt about it, Pence had a golden touch, and the studio heads were salivating just imagining what he could do with Proven Killers. If this man could take the elements in Alaska, then L.A. should be a ray of sunshine, even with the latest headaches and obstacles.
Pence took the job and got right to work. The first encouraging step he took was tightening up the production. Unlike Spitz’s bombastic nature and Victor’s cold demeanor, he often chatted with the cast and crew, and insisted everyone call him Jonathan, not Mr. Pence. It wasn’t long before he earned everyone’s respect—no small feat since everyone was on pins and needles. The studio had been smart in hiring him; they needed someone who was tough yet fair, and someone the cast could relate to. Plus, Pence came from the same neighborhood where Proven Killers based many of their location shoot
s. He was very familiar with the gang scene, having nearly been recruited while he was in his teens. He still personally knew several gang members, and the ones he didn’t, he knew someone who did.
Things might’ve been looking up, after all.
37 Humming Right Along
Jonathan and I hit it off great, but then again, he hit it off great with everyone else—especially Armando. Armando was in front of the cameras again—the star—while I was left to languish in the background, basically doing what an ordinary grip would do. I wasn’t thrilled about my status, but I was happy being back on the show, plus it was looking like Spitz might not have had a chance to reveal our little secret to anyone.
I may have been coming to terms with not being the star of the show, but I was still plagued by insomnia most nights. I took Benadryl and gummies laced with THC regularly, which were helping less and less, as I was probably becoming immune to them. Alcohol, Xanax, and other “sleep-aids” didn’t do the trick either. I paced the floors at night, chewing on every idea that came to mind as to how I could improve my status on Proven Killers and keep out of harm's way. But I kept coming up empty.
Suddenly, I heard a siren blaring outside on the street, and I rushed to the window. Even with the security lights on, it was dark out, but I could see the EMT guys race into the building across the street. In a few short minutes, they left, this time with someone on a gurney hooked up to an IV. I kept thinking, That could just as well be me in that ambulance if I don’t get some sleep soon. Not once did I think about that poor person in the ambulance, though. Nope. Sad to say, I was just worried about me.
As I sat back and watched the lights on the street, Artie the cop came to mind. He most likely kept late hours while working a homicide case, and he was probably losing a lot of sleep over the “S.T.S. murders,” as I now referred to them. I had bumped into him on the set one day and he’d looked like a walking zombie, asking the same questions on the set that he had asked a hundred times before, but seemed no closer to solving what the press had dubbed “The Hollywood Homicides.” Artie was making everyone nervous because he was coming over to the set a lot lately. Half of us wondered if he just enjoyed being behind the scenes of a TV show, as he was never in a hurry to get back to the station. You could tell he was a little star struck and was probably hoping to get into a background shot or two. Everyone, even hardened police detectives wanted their fifteen minutes of fame.
Killing Reality Page 18